


let's make a harmony and life will sing (city in the rearview and nothing in the distance)

by awkwardspiritanimals



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, brief appearances by Coulson and May, four dorks in love take a road trip, road trip fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:34:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardspiritanimals/pseuds/awkwardspiritanimals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She needs this van, and endless miles of open road, and someone to drive them with.</p>
<p>A road trip in twenty songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's make a harmony and life will sing (city in the rearview and nothing in the distance)

 

_i. and i can’t stand working all day, work is wearing out my soul, i think i’ll go out tonight and i will call in sick tomorrow_

It’s not her van, but it’s close, and it’s gorgeous, and it is calling out to her with the siren song of the open road. It is sitting unused and beautiful in this warehouse, and Skye feels the overwhelming need to breath life and love and adventure into it, and maybe to let it breath them back into to her. She needs this van, and endless miles of open road, and someone to drive them with.

\-------------

“A road trip?” asks Simmons, and that’s her skeptical voice.

“Yeah, a road trip. It’ll be fun.”

“Have you talked to May and Coulson about this?”

“Of course I have. They both said we should do it,” she answers, and the other three are now all looking at her skeptically, but it’s true. Coulson had in fact been surprisingly enthusiastic about the idea, and she doesn’t know if it was because he felt sorry for them or he just wanted them out of his hair for a while or if it was because he could see the look in her eyes when she’d asked him, and she doesn’t really care. She doesn’t need to understand his reasoning; she just needs his permission, that gorgeous van, and the three people sitting in front of her now.

“Oh, come on, guys. It’s an American tradition!”

“Neither Fitz nor I are American,” Simmons points out, and Skye rolls her eyes.

“It’ll be fun, Simmons, come on.”

“Why is it so important to you that we go?”

“Because,” Skye says, and she runs her hand through her hair with a deep breath, because she’s apparently going to have to try to put this feeling into words and she doesn’t know how, “Because I think we need some time away from this, all of it. Time where we don’t have to be S.H.I.E.L.D. agents or scientists or specialists or whatever, where we're not stuck in the middle of everything that happened to us and what it means, and I think that time needs to be spent together in a van out on the open road and it needs to be _right now_ ,” she takes another deep breath, steadying herself. The other three are staring at her, and she would be more embarrassed if she didn’t feel that this was so important, “I think we need some time to just be _us_ , you know?”

For what feels like a long time, Simmons looks at her, and Skye thinks she should feel like a specimen under a microscope, but there’s a softness in her eyes that prevents it. Skye can see in the softness that Simmons understands; she understands that Fitz is too quiet, that Trip still hovers on the outside sometimes like he’s waiting for them to tell him that he’s no longer needed, that Skye is going slowly and completely stir crazy, that she herself hasn’t looked fully rested in months. She understands that something needs to be done, because she’s been trying to come up with something to help, and she’s willing to try this because she’s been coming up blank again and again.

“Ok,” she says finally, and she turns to look over her shoulder at Fitz for a few seconds before looking back at Skye, “Ok, let’s go.”

“It is mildly unsettling when you guys do the whole wordless communicating thing,” says Trip, but he’s smiling.

“What about you, Trip? You in?” Skye says, like a challenge.

“Oh, I’ve been in since the words ‘road trip,’ but that was a pretty good speech. Did you practice in the mirror?” he says, his smile growing.

“Ok, you’re no longer invited on the road trip.”

“Too bad. I’m still coming.”

“Fine, but you have to sit in the back with the luggage.”

“It’s probably better than having to sit next to you.”

“You’re uninvited again.”

“But again, I’m coming anyway.”

“You’re going to have to start respecting my road trip authority at some point.”

“It’s adorable that you believe that’s going to happen,” Trip says, and he has the audacity to _wink_ at her.

“If you annoy me I will most definitely leave you on the side of the road,” Skye says, and she thinks that the threat should shrink his smile at least a little, and she’s irritated that it doesn’t until she realizes that her grin is just as big as his, “All right, gang, you better get packing. We leave at 10 o’clock on the dot tomorrow.

\------

It is 10:42, and they have not left yet. They had been packed and loaded by 9:45, and even Jemma had been satisfied that they had everything they need, but Coulson is on his third or fourth round of increasingly specific questions concerning their readiness.

“Do you have the credit cards I gave you? Did you all pack enough socks?” he asks, peering over the bags piled in the back of the van, and Skye rolls her eyes.

“Yes and I don’t know. Socks are cheap, AC. If necessary, we’ll stop at a Wal-Mart and fill the entire back of this van with socks, but in order to do that or anything else for that matter, we actually have to leave at some point.”

“All right, all right, I get it,” he says with a sigh, “Be careful. Stay in touch. Don’t do anything outrageously illegal.”

“Good tips,” she says, and Coulson rolls his eyes but steps around to the side door to talk to the other three.

“Take care of each other,” May says, and then smiles, “Make sure Fitz eats something resembling a vegetable every once and a while. And that Trip eats a candy bar or something occasionally.”

“I can do that,” she says, matching May’s smile.

“Have fun,” says Coulson, coming to stand at May’s side.

“Another excellent tip from AC,” Skye says, still grinning, and then she realizes that this is the moment.

The moment of leaving, of going, of letting the open road stretch out endlessly in front of her, and it feels huge and important and she breathes in it for a few seconds before she throws her backpack into the pile of bags and closes the hatch. She forces herself not to skip towards the driver’s door in excitement

Sliding into the seat, Skye sets her hands firmly on the steering wheel, and glances at the others; Trip is half-slouched against the door in the passenger seat, looking more comfortable than any person has a right to, and Fitzsimmons are sitting on the first bench seat, shoulders touching even though the bench could comfortably sit at least three people. The bags are all in the back, everyone is buckled in, the van is humming underneath her feet; they’re ready to go. Trip reaches for the volume knob and she slaps his hand away.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Driver picks the music.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone. It’s like the number one rule of road trips,” she says, and Trip rolls his eyes.

“Fine. I’ve got next shift behind the wheel.”

“Sounds good to me,” Skye says with a smile as she connects her iPod to the radio, “Ready to go?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

“Ready,” says Simmons, and Fitz nods. She turns to Trip, who looks like he belongs nowhere in the universe so much as he belongs slouched in that seat, grinning at her.

“Hit it,” he says, and she presses play and steps on the gas, and they are on their way.

_ii. lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones, and i will try to fix you_

They’ve got no destination, and therefore no time limit of any kind, and it doesn’t take them long to settle into a fairly comfortable rhythm. They stop whenever they’re hungry or need to pee; some nights they take shifts driving and sleeping, and others they check into a hotel for eight solid hours of sleep, a shower, and a break from the van. It’s good, but Jemma can feel the tension in all of them still, the pressure that Skye wants them to escape; she wonders who will break first.

\------------

On the sixth day, the temperature breaks one hundred the moment the sun rises and doesn’t let up the entire day; she’s driving when the engine finally overheats, manages to guide them into a rest area before the van completely gives up. Fitz climbs out to make sure everything is fine while they wait for it to cool, and Jemma stands next to him while Trip and Skye wander off to explore the rest stop in the fading sunlight.

It’s hot and they’ve been driving for two straight days, and she drifts a little standing next to Fitz, watching cars zoom past on the interstate, not really seeing them. She’s pulled out of her daze when she hears something thump against the van, turns to see Fitz, jaw clenched, staring down at the engine, clearly having just punched at the hood in frustration; Jemma touches his shoulder and he jerks away.

“Fitz?”

“There’s,” he says, and she can hear the frustration in his voice, “It shouldn’t have overheated. There’s a valve that’s stuck and I can fix it, but my bloody hands won’t stop shaking.” The tremors in his right hand are slight, barely noticeable if you’re not looking for them, but his left hand shakes enough to twist his entire arm; she can’t tell  if the flexing of his fingers is involuntarily or if he’s trying to stop the shaking. They’ve been rarer lately, the tremors, but they’ve all had little real sleep over the past few days and she can see the exhaustion pulling at him.

“You can fix it though? You remember how?” she asks, ghosting her hand just barely along the shoulder seam of his t-shirt. _He isn’t fragile_ , she reminds herself, settles her hand there more firmly.

“Of course I know how,” he bites, and she knows it’s irritation at his own body and not at her, is actually glad of the flash of fire from him, “I just can’t actually do it right now.”

“You could tell Trip what to do though? You could explain it to him?” she asks, soaking in the warmth of the air, the warmth of his shoulder under her hand, the warmth of that one spark, and he nods, “Okay.”

When Trip wanders back over, Fitz walks him step-by-step through the adjustment of the valve, and Jemma holds Fitz’s hands between both of hers, as tightly as she can. They shake and shiver in her grasp as he talks, and she keeps waiting for him to jerk away, to glare at her, to ask her to step away from his weakness instead of trying to protect it. Instead, when the tremors subside, he wraps his fingers around hers, smiles at her, soft and sweet, not a spark but a slow burn,  fire nonetheless.

Jemma lets Skye take the wheel when they’re able to go again, sits close to Fitz on the bench seat, points of warmth where their knees, their hips, their shoulders touch. He hasn’t let go of her hands; she hasn’t let go of his.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing her fingers.

“Not a problem,” she answers, squeezing back.

They don’t let go for awhile.

\---------------

“Where’s Trip?” asks Skye as they return to the van, laden with snacks and drinks. Fitz shrugs, and Jemma glances back towards the truck stop they’ve just exited.

“I’ll go look for him. He might not have seen us leave,” she says, turning back as the other two load into the van. She finds him, oddly enough, standing in the small toy section, looking as confused as she’s ever seen him.

“Trip? We’re all outside, if you were waiting for us.”

“Huh? Oh, no, I was just looking for something. It’s not a big deal,” he says, but he’s worrying at his bottom lip.

“What were you looking for?” she asks, not used to seeing Trip so unsure of himself.

“My old partner, before… everything, he had a son. His birthday’s in a couple days, and I’ve been trying to find him a present, but I can’t find anything that feels right. What do you send a kid when you’re the one who had to tell him his dad had been killed?” he asks, looking to her for an answer he knows she doesn’t have but he needs anyway.

“I don’t know,” she admits, though it pains her.

“Me neither,” he admits back, and they both stare at the assortment of cheap plastic toys arrayed in front of them.

“What if you wrote to him?” Jemma says suddenly, her eyes catching on a rack of postcards showing tourist attractions and sunrises over deserts, “What if you bought him postcards and wrote to him? And he could maybe write back, send his letters to your mother’s house? You could pick them up when you visit, or she could scan them and email them to you? He might like the chance to talk to you more than any toy you could get him.”

Trip is looking at her strangely, and she wonders what she has said wrong, moving to replace the postcards she’d pulled down. His hand on her wrist stops her, and she turns to find him smiling at her, shaking his head in disbelief.

“That’s quite possibly the best idea I’ve ever heard,” he says, laughing a little, reaching to sort through the postcards, “You’re like magic.”

“I’m just trying to help,” she says, blushing.

“Yeah, well. Mission accomplished. Now help me find some good ones,” Trip says, and they laugh and push at each other’s shoulders as they shuffle through the postcards. They leave with two dollars worth of quarter postcards because they can’t decide which one is the best; that night at the hotel, Trip sits at the desk in their room, glancing up every once and a while to smile at Jemma and shake his head.

The next morning, she finds one of the postcards taped to her bag with a giant smiley face drawn on the back. Trip winks at her from the driver’s seat and she rolls her eyes even as she blushes.

\--------------

“Are you having fun?” Skye asks suddenly, and Jemma takes her eyes off the empty highway in front of her for just a second to look at her in the passenger seat.

“What?”

“Are you having fun? I know you were kind of skeptical about the idea.”

“No! I mean, I was, sort of, but not… I wasn’t skeptical of you, or even the idea really. I’m just a worrier, you know that,” Jemma says, and Skye nods, laughing.

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you guys decided to come. Solo road trips are fun and all, but, you know, less fun,” she says, her voice fading at the end, and Jemma looks over again to see her frowning out the window.

“You’re our best friend, you know,” she says, and then blushes, fixing her eyes on the road again. She doesn’t really know why she felt the need to say that.

“Our?” asks Skye, looking confused.

“Well, Fitz is my best friend and I’m his, and you’re our best friend? But obviously we’re separate people, of course, but you’re still our best friend? I mean, we’ve had each other for a long time, but we haven’t really had anyone else, and it’s nice. To have someone else, I mean. That probably doesn’t make any sense, and also it kind of sounds bad. Forget I said anything,” she says.

“Sometimes you’re, like, really bad at words but you also say the exact right thing,” Skye replies, laughing.

“Thank you?” Jemma says, but she’s laughing also.

“Oh, it’s definitely a compliment. You’re adorable,” Skye assures her, and it’s a while before she gets her laughter under control. When she finally does, Jemma can feel the other woman watching her as she concentrates on the road. “Thanks for saying that. And for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”

Jemma looks over at her, smiling, hair caught in the wind from the open window, glances at the boys in the rearview mirror; Fitz, the setting sun catching in his curls, headphones in, sketching, and Trip, sleeping on the back bench seat, head tipped back against the window, looking completely comfortable. She wonders if she looks as picturesque as the rest of them, can feel the tension easing from her own chest, lets it flow out the open windows of the van.

“Me too.”

_iii. little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter, little darling, it feels like years since it's been here… here comes the sun_

The horizon is growing lighter in front of him, and Fitz realizes just how long he’s been driving. He’d taken over for Skye just before midnight and driven the whole night, letting the others sleep. Jemma had tried to stay awake with him, insisting she would take a shift at some point, but she’d drifted off around two and he’d let her.

The last four hours have been passed in quiet for the most part, just him and the radio, turned down low to avoid waking the others. It’s been nice, the Beatles mixing with their soft breathing around him. He knows they’ll be upset with him for driving all night, knows that they’re worried about him, that they think he’s been too quiet since everything happened, hasn’t been himself. They’re probably right, and he’s tried to open himself back up on this trip; he’s not sure if it’s working, but his chest feels looser than it has in a long time and the others have significantly cut down on the time they spend looking at him like he’s about to break.

He’s been drinking Mountain Dew most of the night to help him stay awake, and his fingers drum along to the beat of the song playing on the radio. Fitz grins when he recognizes it, turns the volume up just slightly, looks out at the sunrise lighting up the road in front of him. Not being much of a morning person, his experience with sunrises is limited, but he thinks this one must be particularly gorgeous. The world outside the windshield is painted in pinks and oranges, the clouds composed of blues and purples. Everything looks new and fresh, and there’s a swelling warmth in his chest, a sudden need for the others to see this.

Fitz wants them to wake up together, to all experience the sight at the same time, so he doesn’t reach over to shake Jemma awake. Instead, he spins the volume control on the radio until George Harrison’s voice is blaring through the car. The other three startle awake, and he lowers the volume back to a more acceptable level.

“Jesus, Fitz,” says Skye, rubbing at her face, “What was that for?”

Confronted with their confused stares, he’s suddenly unsure what to say, how to explain to them why he’d woken them up at the crack of dawn, why he thought they needed to see this.

“Fitz?” says Jemma, reaching over to touch his arm, and he can hear the worry in her voice.

And it’s not that he’s been too quiet since everything happened, or that he’s not that great at words to begin with. It’s that he doesn’t know how to explain to them that he thinks they are people who have seen too many dark and bruised sunsets, who have missed too many sunrises trying to recover from the day before, who absolutely deserve to see this particular glorious sunrise and the world it has washed new in rose colors. They deserve sunrises and he doesn’t know how to explain that to them until the song playing breaks through his mild panic.

Fitz smiles, looks around at all of them, “It’s been a long, cold, lonely winter,” he says, still a little unsure, afraid they won’t understand his meaning, and then points out the windshield, “But here comes the sun.”

“Holy shit,” says Skye, as they all gaze out the window at the bright world unfolding before them.

Jemma smiles at him, and he shrugs, blushing. He’s not usually one for quoting song lyrics, but he hadn’t had the words he’d needed to explain. They all sit in silence for a while until the song ends, shifting to something softer, and Fitz reaches for the volume, to turn it down and let them go back to sleep.

“Hey, don’t turn it off,” Skye says, reaching forward to stop him, “Skip back and play it again.”

“Why?” he asks, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, Trip behind her, nodding.

“Because that sunrise deserves that song. And possibly a raucous sing-along, but that can probably wait until a time that doesn’t start with a six. I didn’t even know we had one of those in the morning,” she says, and Fitz laughs, turns the volume up, lets Jemma take his iPod to restart the song.

Skye manages two play throughs before she starts to sing along. Trip joins in, Jemma hums along, and Fitz drives toward the sunrise, smiling.

****  
  


_iv. don't stop believin', hold on to that feelin'_

“Oh, excellent!” Skye shouts, reaching for the volume knob, and Trip smiles. He should have known, when he realized what song would play next, that Skye would recognize it from the first note. This is one of his favorite playlists, one of those he made when he was at the Academy that’s still on his iPod after all this time, and he’d memorized the order a long time ago.

“Mandatory group sing-along!” she crows happily, reverting to speaking in exclamation points as she is prone to doing, “And that means you, Leopold Fitz, you little shit!”

Fitz groans, “Please no.”

“Simmons?” Skye asks, reaching over to pause the song, voice going sickly sweet.

“Yes, Skye?” responds Simmons, raising her eyebrows.

“Fitz is like a world-renowned genius, right?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m going to assume he knows the meaning of the word mandatory.”

“I don’t know the words to the song,” Fitz says, rolling his eyes. Skye throws a half-eaten candy bar at him.

“I can’t believe you just tried to tell that ridiculous lie directly to my face. I can’t believe you would so blatantly lie to me. I thought we were friends.”

“That was my candy bar, by the way,” Trip says, but he’s laughing.

“It was lost in a noble cause. See, Fitz? Your refusal to participate in the Journey sing-along is hurting everyone in this van.”

“Skye, you can’t make me do this.”

“Fitz,” Trip says softly, and then again, smiling, turning the name into a chant, increasing in volume. Skye catches on first, joining in gleefully, forced to take breaks from chanting to giggle, and Simmons eventually joins in, and Trip can see her nudging against her partner’s shoulder every time she says his name. The van fills up with chants of _Fitz, Fitz, Fitz_ for a few minutes until the man in question throws up his hands.

“Fine, fine, I’ll do the sing-along, for god’s sake!” he says, and the chants are replaced by cheers as Trip reaches over to hit play. They sing through it three, four, five times, Skye turning the volume up louder and louder on each repeat.

He thumps the drum part out against the wheel, thinking that someone should bottle this moment, capture it for all time as a perfect illustration of a road trip or summer or maybe even happiness, and then he tells himself to stop being such a sap and belts out the chorus, battling the radio and Skye and Jemma and Fitz, who has become more enthusiastic with each repeat of the song.

The next time they stop for gas, Trip makes Skye buy him two candy bars and she sings walking down the aisle towards him, Fitz playing the drum part on one of the shelves. They don’t get kicked out of that particular truck stop, but the cashier looks glad to see them leave; they dance badly across the parking lot to the van. He rolls the windows down and they crank the volume and sing some more.

_v. but they came, and when they finally made it here, it was the least that we could do to make our welcome clear, come on in, we haven't slept for weeks, drink some of this, it'll put color in your cheeks_

He’d driven the last shift of the day, and  there’s a pounding headache  forming behind his eyes by the time he pulls into the parking lot of the hotel. Jemma and Skye talk about something the entire ride up in the elevator, and by the time they reach the room, every word feels like a spike into his brain; Fitz excuses himself, not wanting to get irritated with them for something completely normal, something that he probably wouldn’t even notice if not for the headache.

Squinting against the bright florescent lighting of the hallways, he searches the hotel for somewhere quiet and relatively dark, finds it in the basement, a deserted arcade lit by black lights and the game screens. Fitz settles into one of the plastic chairs attached to some sort of racing game in the back corner, closing his eyes and pulling in deep breaths; he’d probably fall asleep if his head didn’t hurt so much.

“I’ve never really noticed how cool denim looks under black light,” Fitz opens his eyes to find Trip sitting in the chair next to him, staring at his own glowing jeans. He smiles when he looks up, holds out a hand with two Advil in it, “Figured you might need these.”

“Thanks,” Fitz says, taking the pills and looking around, “I, uh, can’t dry swallow them,” he admits, not saying that he can’t do it because it feels for just a second like he’s choking and even the thought of it is causing mild panic to rise in his chest.

“That’s why I also brought you this,” Trip answers, asking no questions and producing two bottles of beer from the six pack at his side. Fitz takes his with a nod, cracks it open and swallows the pills quickly.

“You can go back up, if you want,” he says, after a few minutes of silence.

Trip shrugs, “The girls weren’t really including me in their conversation, and the first two stories I saw on SportsCenter were about some hockey player who got arrested and then a five minute report on some golf tournament, which I left in the middle of because I can’t stand for that kind of thing. I’m good here.”

“Are you insulting my country’s national sport?”

“Yes. I am absolutely, one hundred percent, definitely insulting your country’s national sport. I do not understand the appeal of golf one bit,” Trip says, shaking his head with a grin.

“Neither do I, to be honest,” Fitz says, and Trip laughs.

“Hey, you got any quarters?” he asks, and Fitz digs through his pockets for change. He finds three quarters, holds them out to Trip, who grabs two enthusiastically, “All right, bet you the third quarter that you can’t beat me at,” he glances at the game, “Hydrothunder.”

“You’re saying I have to beat you to win back my own quarter?” Fitz asks.

“What, scared?” Trip responds, matching his raised eyebrows.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Good, then let’s get started,” Trip says, leaning forward to slip his quarter into the appropriate slot. Fitz follows suit, relaxing back into his seat with a smirk. “What’s that look for?”

“I’m just wondering if you’ve considered who between the two of us has spent more time around video games,” Fitz says over the sound of the start countdown, slamming his throttle handle forward.

“Shit,” Trip says, scrambling to catch up, but he doesn’t gain much ground; Fitz wins by four positions, raises his arms in victory.

“Best two out of three.”

“How are you going to play, since I’m the winner of the quarter?” Fitz asks, holding up his prize.

“Please, I’m a grown man. I have my own quarters,” Trip answers, digging two out of his jeans, “Leave that one there, it’s still the prize.”

They keep playing, Fitz keeps winning, and Trip keeps producing quarters from various pockets. He mashes on his boost button, he switches up what course they’re racing and the boat he’s driving, he even tries to drive and shift with one hand while waving the other in Fitz’s face, but he can’t manage to finish in front of him.

“All right, all right, I give up,” Trip finally admits when he loses the eighth straight race even though Fitz is nearly bent double with laughter, “How’s your head feel?”

“Good,” Fitz answers after a second, surprising himself. Until Trip had asked, he hadn’t noticed that the ache behind his eyes had almost entirely disappeared, the knot of tension at the base of his skull easing; he’d barely even thought about the headache since the other man had sat down.

“You want to head back up to the room then? You can brag to Simmons and Skye about your arcade domination and they won’t be mad at us for drinking all the beer.”

“Sure,” says Fitz, and they carefully maneuver themselves out of their plastic seats, Trip passing him another beer as they walk down the hall toward the lift. He stares at it in his hand for a few moments, searching for the right words to thank him, because there’s an entire list of things in need of thanks: beer and Advil and a seemingly endless supply of quarters and not saying anything about the fact that Fitz was having to hide away from the world for a while because his head felt like it was going to explode, not drawing a single bit of attention to it beyond small inquiries.

“Thanks, for…” with a shrug is what he finally settles for, glancing up at Trip for a second before returning to studying the carpet of the lift. It’s entirely inadequate but he doesn’t know what else to say, twists the cap off his beer instead of continuing.

“We have to take care of our own, right?” Trip says and then smiles, “Plus it means that the beer is on you next time.”

“Says who?” Fitz asks, and Trip looks offended.

“Everything. Everything says so. The rules of beer. Of manhood. Of friendship. This is like a universally accepted fact across all cultures. It is truly the only thing that separates us from the animals,” Trip continues as they head down the hallway toward their room, and Fitz tries not to laugh and fails.

“Alright, next time beer is on me. Because of friendship.”

“Damn straight because of friendship,” says Trip, and Fitz doesn’t feel embarrassed about the huge smile on his face because the one on Trip’s is equally large.

 

_vi. i'll stop the world and melt with you, you've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time, and there's nothing you and I won't do, i'll stop the world and melt with you_

“Skye, why are we listening to this?” Trip asks, pointing at the van. They’re parked at a rest stop, away from the building, and she’s turned the radio up loud enough that they can listen to it while they lounge on the grass.

“Because it’s a great song?” she responds, like it’s a ridiculous question. It is a ridiculous question.

“Yes.”

“And it’s in one of my favorite movies, Sky High. The one about the high school for super powered kids?” she says and Trip shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen the movie. I mean, why are we listening to this cover?”

Skye sits up, “What do you mean _cover_?”

“All the songs in Sky High are covers of songs from the ‘80s, Skye,” Jemma inserts, “The original version is by a band named Modern English.”

“What?” she says, looking around at the three of them in shock.

“Are you telling me that in your two decades plus of life, you’ve never heard the original version of _I’ll Melt With You_?” Fitz asks, and her answer is interrupted by Trip.

“That’s not the most important question here. The most important question here is clearly how a person assumes that _Bowling for Soup_ wrote a song this great,” he says, laughing, “But no, this is going to be a great moment in both our lives; you’re going to get to hear this amazing song for the first time, and I’m going to get to watch someone’s face when they hear this amazing song for the first time.” He walks toward the van as he talks, reaching in the open window to replace her music with his.

Skye can feel the others watching her, and she tries to keep her face neutral as she listens. There’s a sentimental attachment to the other version and the original can’t really be that great or at least it can’t be that much better and she can’t possibly let Trip win when he’s got that stupid smirk on his face and she’s suddenly scrambling off the grass, reaching past Trip to spin the volume knob.

“Holy shit,” she says, gaping at him.

“Yeah. It’s that good,” he says, laughing again, “Simmons, come dance with me. This is a song that requires dancing and Skye is too busy being overwhelmed to do it properly.” Skye thinks that maybe she should tell him to shut up, but she’s too busy listening to the song to say anything and Simmons’ eye roll as she stands is enough.

Trip has put the song on repeat, so it plays again as he and Simmons sway; she rolls her eyes at something he says, laughs as he spins her out and back again. They look good, happy, young, more their age than she’s seen them look in months. Fitz has moved to stand next to her, smiling at the pair of them.

“You gave in kind of quickly,” he says, “I thought you’d put up more of a fight before admitting how good the song was.”

“I can’t be blamed for having good taste and immediately recognizing quality when I hear it.”

“Says the person who was listening to a Bowling for Soup song five minutes ago.”

“A Bowling for Soup _cover_ , thank you very much. It’s not like I have all their albums or anything. It’s a song from a movie I like. I can’t be blamed for my ignorance.”

“I think in this instance you can.”

“Whatever,” she says, but she can’t contain a laugh as she turns toward Trip and Simmons again. He has a nice smile, Trip, and when he relaxes he radiates ease in a way that she’s extremely jealous of.

“You’re staring,” Fitz says, and she realizes several minutes have gone by since she last said something.

“I’m watching,” she clarifies, and he rolls his eyes.

“It’s okay, you know,” he says, and continues when Skye gives him a confused look, “If you like Trip.”

“Of course I like Trip. He’s a good guy. A member of the team,” she says, rushing, and yes, okay, maybe sometimes she stares at Trip longer than a platonic friend is probably supposed to; it isn’t her fault the man looks like a work of art and she appreciates that.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Yeah, well,” she stumbles, trying to come up with something to say, “Who are you to call anybody out on liking somebody? What are you and Simmons right now?” Skye is aware that this is probably mean, and also doesn’t really help her case any, but she’s sort of scrambling. She doesn’t like Trip and she doesn’t want to talk about it and this seems like an easy way to distract him.

“We’re,” he starts, and then his face breaks into a grin, the one she hasn’t seen nearly enough since everything happened, that lights up his entire face. Fitz shrugs, “We’re Fitzsimmons. Speaking of,” he pushes away from where he’s been leaning against the van, walks over to the other two to tap on Trip’s shoulder. He fits easily into the space the bigger man vacates, and Simmons smiles up at him as she captures his hand. They’re sort of grossly cute and Skye would probably find it disgusting if she wasn’t busy finding it adorable.

Trip shakes his head at the pair of them before turning to her, that nice smile of his firmly in place, “Fitz stole my dance partner so they can make gooey eyes at each other,” he says, like she’s not watching them make aforesaid gooey eyes, “You should dance with me.”

Skye rolls her eyes but let’s him catch her hand anyway and lead her out onto the grass. He’s warm and his shoulder is solid under her hand and she is pointedly ignoring how nice the feeling of his fingers at her waist is and his goddamn smile. She concentrates on the song still playing to distract herself.

“So, great song, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, you were right. But I have a sentimental attachment to the cover. I really like that movie.”

“It’s good?”

“I mean, it’s not a cinematic storytelling masterpiece or anything. But it’s funny and it has a good soundtrack and a good message and I like it.”

“Maybe we could watch it together sometime? Like I said, I’ve never seen it.”

“Yeah, sounds good. It’s a d-” she begins, and then cuts herself off. Because she is definitely not about to say _it’s a date_ to Trip. That is a bad idea on a truly extraordinary amount of levels. Later on, when Simmons is not watching, she’s definitely going to punch Fitz at least once for putting ridiculous ideas in her head. She steadfastly ignores the voice at the back of her mind, which sounds both rational and incredibly similar to Simmons, that says the ideas were already there.

“We should ask Fitzsimmons if they want to watch with us,” she says, because that seems like a pretty good way to gauge if _he_ thought it was a date. While she’s not sure how to react to that, it seems like information she should have.

“Sounds good. Little road trip team movie night,” Trip responds, and she tries not to make it obvious when she starts breathing again.

“Next time we stop at a hotel, I’ll see what I can do about downloading it. Fitz can probably rig something up to play it on the TV.”

“When you say download, you of course mean you’re going to buy it on iTunes, right?”

“No. That’s not at all what I mean. Coulson said not to do anything _outrageously_ illegal.”

Trip laughs and they continue to sway. She ignores just how difficult it is to resist the urge to rest her head in the space between his shoulder and neck.

_vii. you can't hurry love, no, you just have to wait, she said love don't come easy, it's a game of give and take_

They had planned on driving through the night, but Fitz’s hands had started to shake around ten and Simmons had suggested, in a way that was both polite and invited no argument, that they find a hotel as soon as possible. Normally they stay at Holiday Inns and the like, but he knows that the longer they drive the more worried they’ll all be about Fitz and the more annoyed at being worried over Fitz will be, so he turns into the first motel he finds off the highway.

It’s no chain hotel, but it doesn’t look too bad. The lights don’t flicker, there are no weird stains anywhere, and the teenage girl who gives them the room looks bored, not creepy. There’s really no problems with it until they reach the room itself, which is clean and well-lit and contains two beds that are maybe twin-sized, which is where the problem lies.

Normally, they all share one room, Fitzsimmons taking one bed and Trip and Skye the other. Usually, they have large queen or king size mattresses so they can each take a side and it isn’t awkward. But there are no sides to these beds; there’s barely a middle. It’s Simmons who speaks up first, and it’s definitely not because he’s very busy looking anywhere but at Skye.

“I could share with Skye tonight,” she says, and Trip shakes his head immediately. He’s seen Fitzsimmons in the van when one of them drives and the other sleeps, has seen them wake up sweating, shaking, swallowing down shouts of the other’s name. And with Fitz still shaking, his eyes slightly glassy, visibly trying not to lean on Simmons, he won’t take them from each other.

“No, Skye and I’ll be alright,” he says, and Skye nods, though she won’t meet his eyes. She goes to take a shower and Fitzsimmons change quickly, climb into the far bed. He can hear them talking but can’t make out the words, is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what he should do about the fact that he’s going to have to share a bed that’s barely wider than he is. Eventually, he slips into gym shorts and a t-shirt and lies down as he hears the shower shut off, trying to take up as little space as possible. Skye emerges from the bathroom, hair down and half dry, wearing shorts and a tank top.

“I didn’t know they actually made beds this small except for like, children and animals,” she says, with a small smile, and he laughs. Objectively, as her friend, Trip can admit that Skye is gorgeous, unfairly so really, and she looks good even in the dim light from the bathroom.

“Well,” she says, and he realizes that he should probably stop thinking about how attractive she, _his friend_ , is _before_ she climbs into the tiny bed with him.

“Well,” he responds, “I just went with our usual sides. Hope that’s fine.”

“Yeah, great,” she says, and then they fall silent because there’s not much else to say really.

She settles onto the mattress next to him carefully, on her side with her back to him, and he tries to move over just the slightest bit more to give her more room. It’s likely that at some point during the night he’s going to find himself on the floor; he’s not sure if that’s necessarily a bad thing. They lay like that for what feels like a long time, him half off the mattress and her lying on her side even though he knows she likes to sleep on her back.

And it’s ridiculous. It is absolutely ridiculous that two grown adults, two friends, are uncomfortable and awkward when they should just be sleeping.

“Skye, come over here,” he says, readjusting on the bed so he’s in the middle of it, his shoulder pressed against her back, muscles relaxing now that he no longer has to try to hold himself in the bed.

“What?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at him with wide eyes.

“This is ridiculous. You can use my shoulder for a pillow for one night. Otherwise, we’re both going to end up sleeping on the floor.”

“You sure?” she turns carefully, eyebrows raised, and he nods.

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t drool or anything, do you?”

“No.”

“Then come here,” Trip says, and they engage in a somewhat awkward shifting of limbs until she’s settled along his side, one arm across his chest and her head on his shoulder.

“Comfortable?” he asks, and he is absolutely not smirking.

“You have way more muscle than a normal person, but yeah,” she answers, and he laughs, slipping his arm around her.

“Go to sleep, Skye,” he mumbles, because now that he’s comfortable, completely on the bed, sleep is pulling at him pretty hard and he’s suddenly glad they’d decided not to drive through the night, even if the motel they’d found seemed to be playing some sort of practical joke on their customers concerning the size of their beds. And she’s warm and has curves in rather excellent places and her hair smells nice and he drifts off thinking good thoughts which definitely have nothing to do with any of those things.

_viii. take the weakest thing in you, and then beat the bastards with it, and always hold on when you get love, so you can let go when you give it_

She loves him best like this.

The statement sounds ridiculous as soon as she thinks it, but that doesn’t make it any less true. She loves him best always, and she loves him best right in this moment.

They’re sleeping next to a lake she doesn’t know the name of. Last night, Trip and Skye had spotted a sign for some state park or another and instantly become enamored with the idea of camping; she had tried to point out to them that they had neither the proper equipment nor whatever permit was required to actually camp in the state park. They had responded that it was warm and they could sleep outside, that it was late and they could sneak in, and she’d relented, turning off at the correct exit to cheers. At any moment, she expects a park ranger to find them and kick them out, but for now everything is quiet and the sun is rising.

Trip and Skye are down closer to the lake, the water lapping at their feet, but Jemma had known neither she nor Fitz would get any sleep that way. They’re further up the little beach, closer to the van than the water. She’d slept with her head on his chest so she could hear his heartbeat but she’d moved back upon waking up, to study him in the new sunlight. He turns towards her on the sand, chasing her warmth, and Jemma smiles.

Fitz’s eyes flutter open, and she has a moment of intense jealousy about how long his eyelashes are before she’s distracted by the immediate need to be close to him again. Jemma scoots forward until she can rest her forehead against his, one hand against his jawline, rough with stubble. His eyes are overwhelmingly blue this close. They stay that way for a while, foreheads touching, her hand at his jaw, his at her waist, the sun rising.

“Jem?” Fitz says eventually, and she can hear the worry in his voice.

“Shh. It’s fine. I just- just stay still for a minute. I just need a minute,” Jemma answers, hoping he’ll understand. She needs to memorize this moment.

Jemma wants to remember forever the first time his eyes are this close and this blue and his jaw is rough under her hand and the sun is warming the sand around them as it rises over a lake she does not know the name of. She needs to remember it so that she can use it to combat the memory of his face bloody and cast in dim emergency lights at the bottom of the ocean when it flashes into her head; she can’t forget that, and she doesn’t want to, because that was him and this is him and he is hers.

She thinks that maybe it should be hard, that it should feel momentous, and it does a little bit, but mostly it feels like the easiest thing she’s ever done, to tilt her head forward and press her lips to his. Jemma leaves her eyes open, not willing to lose his yet; his flutter shut in surprise for just a moment before he meets her gaze again, and they’re really rather ridiculously blue, and she plans on telling him that as soon as she can bring herself to stop kissing him.

Eventually she pulls away just enough to rest her forehead against his and smile at him. Fitz looks dazed, happy, the hand at her waist tightening slightly. Her happiness demands movement, and Jemma scrambles to her feet, catching his hand to intertwine their fingers.

“Come on,” she says, tugging.

“Where are we going?” he asks, laughing but following her up, slower and clumsier than her but eager.

“Come on,” she insists, tugging harder until he’s on his feet and then she’s running and he’s trailing behind her, laughing still, his fingers tight around hers. They reach the van and she turns to pull him against her; overly warm, out of breath, she slips her free hand into his curls to tug his mouth back to hers, because that’s something she’s allowed to do now and she plans on taking advantage of that fact.

“Your eyes are blue,” she says when they break apart, remembering that she’d wanted to mention that to him.

He laughs, and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard, “Yeah. That’s not really anything new, Jem.”

“Shut up,” she says, laughing, mumbling the two words against his lips.

He obliges, pulls her closer, warm and impossibly blue-eyed and hers.

_ix. i don't know where you're going, but do you got room for one more troubled soul?_

It’s late, just them and the semi trucks. The boys are asleep in the back, having exhausted themselves arguing over something she wasn’t really paying attention to, but Simmons is still awake, resting her head against the passenger window. Fall Out Boy is playing quietly, and it’s the third or fourth time they’ve listened to this album, but Simmons hasn’t said anything; it’s one of Skye’s favorite things about her, her utter respect for the _driver picks the musi_ c rule. Fitz and Trip would probably be going crazy at this point, but she’s just sitting quietly, watching the world pass outside the window.

“Sorry,” she feels the sudden need to say, and she gestures at the radio when Simmons looks at her strangely, “I know we’ve listened to this album a lot. I really like it.”

“It’s fine. It’s good,” says Simmons with a smile. They pass a truck and Skye can see her glancing towards the cab, “Do you think truck drivers get lonely?”

She laughs, because that’s such a Simmons question, such a Simmons thing, to worry about the emotional welfare of people she glimpses through windows at seventy-five miles per hour.

“Probably. But, I mean, they probably kind of anticipated it? They probably were prepared for it. I think that the kind of people who gravitate towards truck driving are the kind of people who don’t mind being alone that much,” she says, and Simmons nods, though Skye figures that she doesn’t really understand that feeling. Simmons is a people person all the way down to her core.

“When I was younger, I kind of wanted to be a truck driver,” she says, adding another phrase to the rather long list of _things said to Simmons that I didn’t really realize I was going to say until I’d said them._ Simmons raises her eyebrow, and Skye continues, “It seemed kind of cool to me, you know? Seemed like a lot of freedom, getting to drive all over the country. Lots of open roads and exciting new places. Freedom,” she repeats, out of new words to explain further.

“And the loneliness? Did you think about that?” asks Simmons.

Skye lets the music play for a while before she answers, “At that point, I guess I was so used to being lonely that I didn’t think it would really bother me. It seemed like being lonely out in the world would be so much better than being lonely where I was. I thought that if I mixed enough freedom in, I could dilute the loneliness,” she finishes with a shrug.

Music again for awhile, and then Simmons speaks, “You’re not lonely now, are you?”

Skye laughs, because it feels pretty good to have someone to worry about whether you’re lonely or not, “No, Simmons, I’m not lonely. That’s kind of why I wanted you guys to come along so badly. So I could share the whole thing, you know, freedom, the open road.”

“This one particular Fall Out Boy album?” she asks, but she’s smiling, and Skye laughs.

“Definitely,” she answers, and the best thing about not being lonely anymore is absolutely the fact that there is someone to worry about whether you’re lonely or not, and there’s no one in the world better to have worry about you than Jemma Simmons.

“You want to play the license plate game?” she asks suddenly, and Simmons gives her a confused look.

“What’s the license plate game?”

“Wow, you really are a road trip rookie. It’s the ultimate car ride game. Basically, you look at license plates and try to see who can find more states. You do know all 50 US states, right?” she asks, and it’s not often that she gets to see the Simmons equivalent of Fitz’s _I’m a world class genius and you’re asking a ridiculous question_ face, but she’s seeing it now, and she laughs again. “We’ll just play who can get the most, since you’re new and we don’t want you to be confused by too many rules.”

Simmons gives her the look again. They play for the rest of Skye’s shift, and Simmons wins handily, the fact that Skye has to concentrate on driving while looking obliterating whatever experience advantage she may have had. Skye doesn’t mind.

_x. when the night has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see, no I won't be afraid, oh, I won't be afraid, just as long as you stand, stand by me_

“Oh, Fitz, look! Omaha!” Simmons says excitedly, pointing out the window at one of the signs along the interstate. Skye twists around to look at the pair of them.

“You two, who have traveled around the world, are excited about _Omaha, Nebraska_?” she asks, disbelieving.

“One of the top zoos in the entire world is located in Omaha,” Fitz answers, and Trip can see Simmons nodding in the rearview mirror.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Not in the slightest,” Simmons says, “Henry Doorly Zoo and Aquarium has several times been rated the number one zoo in the world. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“They have monkeys,” inserts Fitz, like he considers this top priority information.

“Well, alright then,” Trip says, flipping on the blinker to change into the correct lane to exit.

“Alright then what?” asks Skye, turning from the other two to look at him.

“I don’t know if you heard, but Fitzsimmons said that the world’s tightest zoo is within an hour’s drive of here. I’m in the business of fulfilling dreams, and also the business of going to great zoos. Plus, have you ever had an Omaha steak, Skye?” he asks, and she shakes her head, “Then please allow me to take you to Omaha and change your life.”

\----------

“What the hell is that?” asks Skye, pointing at the massive dome to their left as they enter the zoo.

“The Desert Dome,” Simmons says, and Trip can feel her practically vibrating with excitement next to him, “It’s the largest indoor desert environment in the world.”

“Contained in the largest glazed geodesic dome in the world,” Fitz inserts.

“And underneath that is the Kingdoms of the Night exhibit, which is the largest nocturnal animal exhibit in the world, including the world’s largest indoor swamp, home to one of only thirteen known white alligators in the world,” Simmons adds.

“Wow,” Skye responds.

“Yes, it’s really rather incredible, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, it’s obviously pretty great. But that was more of a _wow my friends are such incredible nerds_ ‘wow’ than anything else,” Skye answers, and Fitz glares at the both of them when Trip laughs, but Simmons is tugging him toward the Desert Dome fairly insistently.

“Monkeys?” he asks, sounding as hopeful as Trip has ever heard him.

“Desert Dome first,” she responds, and Fitz groans but follows willingly enough.

\---------

Trip is pretty much content to spend the day following the other three around the zoo.

They eat lunch at a giraffe themed concession stand, where Fitz complains about American fries and Skye complains about Fitz’s metabolism. Simmons doesn’t complain about anything; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look quite as happy as Jemma Simmons looks wandering around the world’s best zoo.

“Trip, is there anything you want to see?” she asks as they throw away the remains of their meal.

“Monkeys?” Fitz pipes up helpfully from behind them, and Trip laughs.

“As tempting as that sounds, I was actually thinking that maybe we could check out the Skyfari?” he asks, and Simmons grins.

The four of them end up squashed on a single bench, dangling over the zoo, moving slowly along the wire; Skye is kicking her feet like a little kid and Fitz has stopped pouting for the most part, probably because Simmons is half in his lap on the crowded bench, and Trip realizes that he’s probably just about as happy as he’s ever been in his entire life, fifty feet above the world’s greatest zoo, squashed onto a bench with his teammates in the middle of a road trip with no real destination. He likes the way the curve of Skye’s hip presses against his, the way his arm can extend across both Simmons and Fitz’s shoulders, the way they are together. For maybe the first time in his life, he absolutely can’t imagine being anywhere else as he scans across the zoo.

“Look,” he says, pointing, already laughing, “Pretty sure that rhino is about to take the world’s largest shit.” Skye punches him in the arm and Fitz gives him a look that’s a perfect mix of horror, disgust and anger; he laughs harder and Skye punches him again.

“Why the hell would you feel the need to point that out to us?” Fitz demands, aggressively staring in the opposite direction of where he’s pointing.

“To see that exact look on your face, Fitzy. I don’t get to see it nearly enough,” he says, and Skye punches him for a third time.

“Actually though, the world’s largest-” Simmons starts, looking excited, but Skye cuts her off.

“Simmons, I am absolutely crazy about the fact that you are a genius. It is every girl’s dream to have a best friend who is a genius. But I swear that if you start talking about the science of poop, I will end our friendship right here and now.”

“Fine,” says Simmons as they start to descend, although she doesn’t really sound all that upset, “I think it’s probably time to go to the Lied Jungle, if there’s nothing else we want to see,” she adds causally, and the grin on Fitz’s face is several types of ridiculous.

“Monkeys?” he asks, and he darts forward to press a quick kiss against her lips when she smiles at him.

\------------

Trip finds out that the only person in the world who can rival the happiness of Jemma Simmons at the world’s greatest zoo is Leopold Fitz anywhere within twenty feet of a real live monkey. Even as they emerge from the massive jungle exhibit, he’s still babbling on to Simmons, who is looking up at him affectionately, like she really can’t imagine loving someone who doesn’t want to enthusiastically talk to her about monkeys for an hour and a half straight. She catches his collar to tug him down to her; when they pull apart, Simmons is blushing and Fitz looks dumbstruck and happy.

“Please stop being gross,” Skye calls from the bench where she’s sitting; Simmons’ blush deepens, but Fitz just responds by flipping her off with a grin.

“Alright, I think we’re ready for life changing steak,” Trip says.

“Wait,” says Skye, at the same time as Simmons says, “We can’t go yet.”

“Why not?” Fitz asks, looking at the pair of them.

“There’s a carousel,” Skye answers.

“With hand painted animals,” Simmons inserts.

“We wanted to ride it.”

“A carousel?” Trip repeats, and the girls nod, and they look so hopeful.

He is a grown man. His grandfather was a Howling Commando, and he himself is a highly trained government agent working with an extraordinarily elite team. He has traveled the world and killed people and helped to bring down a major branch of an organization seeking world domination.

And he is totally going to ride a carousel. And he is definitely going to make Fitz ride it with him. There will probably need to be photographic evidence.

_xi. we can beat them, for ever and ever, oh, we can be heroes, just for one day_

Fitz tries to concentrate on the things that remind him they are just nightmares: Jemma’s warmth against his chest, the motion of the van, the music playing over his headphones layering with whatever Skye is listening to on the radio. It helps him to catch his breath at least, but he still clenches his jaw against the need to be sick, images flashing behind his eyes.

“Fitz? You alright?” Skye asks, and he can see her glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“Fine,” he grits out, “Could we stop somewhere soon? I think I just need some air.”

“Yeah, there’s a rest stop up ahead,” she answers, worry clear in her voice, changing lanes. He concentrates on the way that Jemma’s ribs expand under his hand with each breath in an attempt to stay calm, trying to stop his shaking and avoid waking her. By the time the van stops, Fitz has screwed his eyes shut and pressed his face against her hair, trying to surround himself with her.

He moves carefully, slipping out from behind her and arranging her comfortably on the seat. _She’s not fragile_ , he reminds himself, but he feels so fragile when he touches her and there are memories of dark water and her scream swirling in his head and Fitz barely manages to stumble to a tree to support himself before he empties the contents of his stomach.

“Jesus, Fitz,” Skye says, and he can feel her next to him, her hand on his back a warm point of contact as he spits, trying to force the taste out of his mouth. She presses a water bottle into his hand and he takes it gratefully, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, rinsing and spitting, trying to move back towards the van. He just wants to curl up with Jemma and forget everything, but Skye grabs his arm and holds on.

“Bullshit, Leopold. You just had a nightmare so bad that you literally threw up. Talk to me,” she says, and he can hear that she’s worried about him, can see her eyes focused on him in the poor lighting of the rest stop parking lot. He can’t hold her gaze, glances toward the highway, counts ten cars before he speaks.

“You all die,” he says softly, and if it wasn’t so quiet he’s fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to hear him at all, “You all die, and I can’t stop it.” Fitz grits his teeth again; he doesn’t want to cry in front of her. It’s quiet for awhile, and he finally forces himself to look at her.

“Jesus, Fitz,” she says again, and then she’s hugging him, arms tight around his waist. He hugs her back, leaning to rest his forehead on top of her shoulder and take deep breathes.

“We’re all okay. You saved us every time we needed you, and we saved you. And we know that if we ever need to be saved again, you’ll be there. And we’ll be there for you. It’s like a team thing, right?” she asks, shrugging her shoulder beneath his head, and he lifts it to nod at her, grateful when she doesn’t say anything about the fact that his eyes are glassy with tears. She looks towards the van, clearly considering something.

“It’s better when you sleep with Simmons, right?” she says, turning back towards him.

“What?” he splutters, and he can feel himself blushing. Skye looks at him confused for a second before understanding dawns and she laughs.

“Not like that! Though, I mean, that probably does help-”

“Skye!” he says, desperately trying to control his blush.

“I just meant like, it helps when she sleeps next to you, when you two get all cuddly and adorable?”

“Yes. I like knowing she’s there,” he admits, still red in the face, and she nods.

“Cool. Alright, come on then, help me,” Skye says, and she starts back towards the van, pulling the rear doors open, “We need to lay the bench seats out flat.”

“Why?” he asks, helping her even before she gives him her answer.

“Cuddle pile,” she answers as the back seat slides into place.

“What?”

“You said you had nightmares about all of us, and that having Simmons by you when you’re sleeping helps with the nightmares. So I figured if we all kind of pile up, it might help even more. Lie down.”

“What?”

“We’re cuddle piling, Fitz. Just lie the fuck down while I get Simmons and Trip,” Skye says, crawling forward on the seat, tugging him with her. Too baffled to argue, he lies down on the cramped seat.

“Simmons, you’ve got to wake up,” Skye says, shaking Jemma’s shoulder.

“Fitz?” she asks as she stirs, and he can see her searching for him in the dark. His heart thumps in his chest.

“Fitz is fine. He had a nightmare, and then he threw up, and then we talked, and now we’re all going to cuddle.”

“What?”

“Just get back there and cuddle with Fitz while I put this seat down. You like cuddling with Fitz,” Skye says, and Jemma smiles when she spots him in the back. She clambers over the seat towards him, and Skye adjusts it so it’s flat and they can stretch out more. Jemma curls against his side, pressing three soft kisses against his jaw.

“I like cuddling,” she whispers into his neck, still half asleep.

“Me too,” he says back, grinning, pressing his face against her hair.

“Trip, you have to wake up and help me make Fitzsimmons stop being gross,” Skye says, shaking his shoulder.

“It is the middle of the night, they can be as gross as they want as long as they let me sleep,” Trip answers, swatting at her hand.

“No, you have to wake up and come back here. Fitz had a bad nightmare and we’re making a cuddle pile to help him feel better,” she pauses for a second, considering, “Is there a more adult, non-sexual way to say that?”

“No,” Trip answers immediately, but he’s already out of his seat, circling to the back of the van. He crawls in next to Fitz on his stomach, resting his head on one arm and throwing the other across Fitz and Jemma’s waists.

“You guys are ridiculously skinny,” he mumbles, already falling back asleep. Skye clambers into the van on Jemma’s other side, curling up and reaching across to wrap her hand around Trip’s arm. Fitz can feel the weight of their arms across his waist and Jemma’s warmth along his side, and he’s able to take what feels like his first full breath since he woke up.

“God, we must look so fucking adorable right now,” Skye says, and Fitz laughs softly to avoid waking Trip and Jemma.

“Skye?” he says after a while, and she mumbles something incomprehensible back, which he takes as a sign he should continue, “Thanks.”

“Go the fuck to sleep, Fitz,” she responds, and he knows that means _you’re welcome_.

He smiles, concentrates on matching his breathing to Jemma’s, drifts off. He doesn’t dream of anything.

_xii. i spend my money on the regular miracles, just like you, like me, like everybody else_

They’d walked a few blocks from their hotel to a bar the guy at the desk had recommended as a good place to drink and unwind. Shortly after arriving, the boys had taken their drinks and claimed an empty pool table, leaving Simmons and Skye to babysit their corner seats. Simmons is talking about something, but Skye is only half paying attention, watching Trip and Fitz play.

“Your boyfriend’s kind of hot,” she says, turning to Simmons, who halts in mid-sentence looking mildly shocked.

“Excuse me?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m not planning on stealing him or anything. Just as like, an objective observer, he’s hot. Normally he’s like dorky, grumpy, accent-y cute, but he makes the scruffy, jeans and t-shirt look work for him.”

“Thank you?” Simmons says, laughing, and then smiles, “I wouldn’t let him hear you say that. You’ll never live it down.”

“What am I, new? I know better than to compliment Fitz on anything I don’t want him to be able to use against me at some point in the future,” Skye says, turning back to watch the boys and groaning, “Is Fitz about to lose our drinking money?” Two locals have wandered up to where Trip and he are playing, and there’s clearly some sort of bet being placed.

“We have several no limits credit cards, I don’t think we’ll end up washing dishes if Fitz loses twenty dollars. And also, Fitz is quite good at pool.”

“You’re telling me that attractive t-shirt and jeans Fitz is also a pool shark?”

“To be fair, normal Fitz is also good at pool. He says that it’s the one thing he’s ever done despite his mum’s explicit disapproval. He made quite a bit of money at the Academy hustling freshman in the Boiler Room.”

“You learn something new every day,” Skye says, and Simmons hums in response, watching Fitz shoot, Trip leaning against the wall behind him, smiling. The locals who had challenged them are definitely not smiling.

“You know, Trip’s quite fit,” she says, and really, Jemma Simmons attempting to be sly is something to see.

“It’s pretty much been universally agreed on that Antoine Triplett is very attractive in almost all settings.” This feels like a good way to avoid talking about any other implications that statement might have. “In fact, at some point, we need to stop at an outlet mall and play a game called i _s there an outfit ridiculous enough that Trip is not attractive_ ,” Skye says, and Simmons laughs, turning back to her beer. Money exchanges hands at the pool table, and Trip and Fitz make their way over, grinning.

“Drinks are on me,” Fitz says, tossing the collection of bills onto the table.

“And how much did you win from those poor men?” Simmons asks, raising an eyebrow.

“They challenged me! It’s not my fault they let me have the break.”

“He made nine straight shots. I thought one of the dudes was going to cry,” Trip says, grinning.

“And how much money did you take from poor Trip?”

“I got an A- in eleventh grade physics, which I’m pretty sure Fitz had mastered by age five. I’m not nearly stupid enough to play him for money,” Trip says, “What did you ladies talk about while we were gone?”

“Skye was just talking about how hot she thinks Fitz is,” Simmons says, and Skye’s jaw drops.

“You traitor!” she says, turning to a smirking Fitz, “Shut up.”

“You think I’m hot?” he asks, grin growing.

“I may have said something to the effect, yes. Your girlfriend was talking about how hot she thinks Trip is,” she responds, pointing at Simmons.

“I am pretty good looking,” Trip inserts from behind his beer.

“Plus I already knew that,” Fitz adds, and Skye rolls her eyes.

“Okay, what’s the point of telling you these things if you’re not going to be all jealous so I can make fun of you,” she says, and Fitz turns to Simmons.

“Jemma, are you planning on leaving me for Trip anytime in the near future?”

“Not particularly, no. Skye has promised she’s not going to try to steal you away from me.”

“I can’t believe you weren’t man enough to play Fitz for money,” Skye says to Trip, looking for anything to change the path of conversation.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t want to lose a bunch of money playing pool against the _engineering genius_. I don’t see you taking him up on the offer.”

“I don’t know how to play pool.”

“What?”

“I never learned. There were other more important things for me to do in bars.”

“Do you know how to play?” Trip asks, turning to Simmons.

“Fitz taught me years ago.”

“Let’s go then,” he says, pulling Skye up, “Come on, Fitzsimmons.”

“Why do we all have to come?” Fitz asks.

“Because it is clearly going to take all three of us to teach this poor girl.”

“Fair enough.”

“Hey!” Skye exclaims, but she grabs her beer from the table and follows Trip, taking the cue he offers her.

They play for an hour or so, Trip teaching her and Fitzsimmons offering advice from across the table where they’re playing half a game. She makes innuendos as they play just to watch Simmons blush and asks Fitz dumb questions until he catches on that she’s messing with him. Fitz makes fun of Trip about the fact that he’s tipsy from two beers and Trip drinks a third anyway; Skye and Simmons roll their eyes at both of them.

On the way back to the hotel, Fitzsimmons hold hands and Trip has one arm over Fitz’s shoulders and the other over Skye’s and absolutely refuses to admit it’s because he’s having trouble balancing. Skye laughs, tempted to shove him and watch him fight to stay upright, but instead she just wraps her arm around his waist, stretching her fingers to brush against the fabric of Fitz’s shirt for just a second. Jemma smiles at her from the other end of the line.

They walk four abreast down the sidewalks back. Skye sticks her tongue out at the backs of the people who glare at them.

_xiii. the weight of being so much more, we will find ourselves on the road, on we march, with a midnight song, we will light our way, with our lanterns on_

Jemma likes driving at night. It’s quiet, and the headlights passing in the opposite direction and around the van are rather beautiful in their way. Plus, it means that the others can sleep; she has trouble, some nights, falling asleep if they aren’t, and she’s usually the one to suggest they stay at a hotel for the night, so she can be sure they’re resting.

Trip stirs from where he’s leaning against the passenger window, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders as he blinks at the dashboard clock.

“Shit, Simmons, sorry. I meant to stay up and keep you company,” he says, and she smiles.

“It’s fine. You can go back to sleep if you want.”

“Nah. I’m good. I’ll take a shift behind the wheel in a little bit, if you want.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fine. You should sleep.”

“Simmons,” he says, and waits until she glances over at him to continue, “Don’t worry about it. I want to.”

“Right. Sorry,” she says, turning back to the road, swallowing hard. Jemma knows they’re adults, that they don’t need her looking after them all the time, but she can’t help it. She needs them to be okay.

“Hey, don’t apologize. Lord knows we all like the fact that you take care of us. We just want to make sure you’re taken care of too.”

“Fitz minds.”

Trip laughs, “He really doesn’t. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes Fitz is sort of a grumpy sonofabitch. But all of us, especially Fitz, are pretty crazy about the fact that you want to make sure we’re good. We just want to make sure you’re good, too. It’s why we let you drive the night shift so often, because we know it makes you feel better. Also, you have generally quieter music taste than the rest of us.”

Jemma smiles and blushes; she didn’t realize she was quite so transparent.

“You know something?” Trip says, and she glances over at him before returning her eyes to the road, “Well, first of all, your driving skills are superb and should be admired and a driver’s ed teacher would probably cry at the sheer beauty of them. Secondly,” he pauses, like he’s considering something, “I think we’re going to be okay.”

He says it with such easy confidence, and there are days when she feels like that too, when Fitz sleeps through the night and Skye doesn’t look lost and Trip fits himself into the group with no hesitation; but there are also days where the weight in her chest is so heavy she can’t catch her breath and she can’t sleep because she’s afraid she’ll wake up and they’ll be gone, that she’ll have lost them by letting her guard down.

It’s nice though, to hear it from someone else who says it like they can’t help but believe it.

“Yeah?” she says, smiling slightly.

“Yeah. I mean, we’ve got you. And we’ve got me. And Fitz and Skye occasionally manage to make themselves useful. I like our chances,” he says, and he is smiling at her and he is so sure of it that she can’t help but let her own smile grow.

“I do too.” Maybe when the sun rises she won’t feel that way, or the next time she tries to fall asleep, or a week from now, but she feels that way right now.

“Good. Now, I’m going to drive in an hour, and you are welcome to sit and watch me drive to make sure I’m okay, or you can go back there and cuddle with Fitz and Skye to make sure they’re okay and I’ll take care of myself for a couple hours. And then we’re going to wake up the other two and go find the least healthy place we can to eat breakfast and you and I are going to eat something greasy and preferably covered in bacon, and I am definitely going to tell Fitz that he can only eat half a grapefruit before I actually let him order just to see the look on his face. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah,” she answers with a smile, “Sounds good.”

_xiv. nightswimming deserves a quiet night_

“We don’t have to do this,” Jemma says quietly, and Fitz lets out a shaky breath.

“I know,” he returns. He is thinking about a different pool. _I need to hear you say it_. He is thinking about Ward. _I know you care about us_. He is thinking about the bottom of the ocean. _I’ve done the math_. He is thinking about breathing.

“Fitz,” she says, and he pulls his gaze from the water, “We don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he repeats. He thinks that maybe he does. In. Out. In.

Trip and Skye are out towards middle depth already, splashing at each other and laughing. It was the kind of hot that not even air conditioning could cut through, and when they had spotted the pool as they drove by, the two of them had immediately proposed going for an unauthorized swim. Their enthusiasm had been catching, and Fitz had scaled the fence with them, tugging Jemma along, all of them laughing and shushing each other.

Now, faced with the expanse of lit blue water, his courage is failing him. In. Out. In.

“Hey,” Jemma says, her hand catching his chin to turn his face towards hers. She stretches up to press her mouth against his, and whispers without pulling away, “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah? That’s funny.” He could get used to talking to Jemma like this.

“Why is that?”

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” He can feel her smile.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

Fitz thought he was having trouble breathing before, and then her fingers find the buttons of his shirt, forehead resting against his. His hands tremble as they reach for the hem of hers.

“Fitz?” she asks, pausing.

“Just nerves. I promise.”

“I’ll go first, huh?” she says, replacing his hands with her own on the hem of her shirt. He nods, blushes, closes his eyes, turns away. He can hear Skye and Trip whooping, is sure Jemma is blushing, screws his eyes shut tightly; the water sloshes against his legs as she slides into the pool, and he opens his eyes.

There’s such a magnificent amount of pale skin now open to his gaze that he’s having significant difficulty concentrating on anything else. Jemma laughs and he’s sure that the cause is the expression on his face. She’s gorgeous; he’s in awe. In. Out. In.

“Your turn,” she says, grinning, and he nods, fumbling for the buttons on his shirt. Fitz could probably do it faster if he could take his eyes off of her, but it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make; he reaches for his belt without pushing the shirt off his shoulders.

“How come you get a free show?” he grumbles.

“I don’t recall saying you had to avert your eyes,” Jemma responds, one eyebrow raised and a challenge in her voice. Jesus. In. Out. In. He blushes, slides out of his shirt and tugs his jeans off his hips, leaving them on the cement next to hers as he slips into the water. It barely reaches above his waist; he closes his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. Jemma’s fingers slip between his.

“Fitz?”

“Yeah?” He opens his eyes. She’s smiling, and he returns it.

“Are you wearing tartan boxer shorts?” He gapes for several seconds; that was not what he was expecting her to say, and he can feel his face heating up.

“Shut up,” he says, stepping in closer to her.

“Is it your family’s?” Jemma asks, laughing.

“I said shut up,” he mumbles against the skin of her neck. One of her hands is warm against his shoulder, the other resting at the back of his neck. “My mum gave them to me for Christmas.” His brain is cloudy with the smell and warmth of her skin, under his lips at her neck and his hands at her waist and _Jesus_. In. Out. In.

“You’re okay?” she asks, and he nods.

“Yeah. I think. Could we- could we just stay like this for a while?” he asks, and she presses a firm kiss against the side of his head in response.

“Fitz!” Skye calls after a few minutes, and he lifts his head to look toward where she and Trip are. For some reason, probably understandable only to Skye, she’s climbed on Trip’s back, arms around his neck, chin perched on his shoulder; Trip continues to float serenely like he barely registers her weight, smiling at him and Jemma.

“You doing alright?” she asks, and Fitz nods. Jemma tightens her hands on him in a comforting squeeze, and he remembers another pool, her hand on his knee, _of course not_. He remembers her hands on his face, her lips against his skin, _you’re my best friend in the world_. He concentrates, can feel her trembling slightly underneath his hands, pulls one from the water to slide along her cheek and into her hair.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, and she nods, smiling softly.

“Yeah. I’ve got you. I’m okay,” Jemma answers, and he leans forward to kiss her. He’s never going to get tired of that.

“You’re my best friend,” Fitz says when they pull away far enough that he can see her eyes.

“You’re my best friend, too.” He’s never going to get tired of that either. He kisses her again.

“Fitzsimmons!” They break apart to look at Skye, who has now perched herself on Trip’s shoulders, “You want to play chicken?” Fitz can tell she’s at least half serious.

“No,” they answer simultaneously and Skye pouts.

“Come on. Simmons, you could totally put Fitz on your shoulders.”

“No,” they say again, laughing.

“What, you’re just going to stand there and make out?”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Fitz says with a smirk. Jemma blushes and slaps lightly at his shoulder. Trip laughs, Skye rolls her eyes, and he ignores them both in favor of stepping in closer to her. Her breath hitches just the slightest bit when he presses his lips against her pulse, and his smirk grows; her fingers curl tighter against the back of his neck as she pulls his face up to hers. He’s breathless, dazed when they part; Jemma is flushed and gorgeous and his head spins at her closeness and the way her pale skin looks in the light from the pool.

“Gross,” chorus Trip and Skye from the other end of the pool, and Fitz is too distracted to bother flipping them off.

A couple of hours later when they check into a hotel, dripping, clothes rumpled, the man behind the desk giving them odd looks, he’s still distracted by her, pressed warmly against his side, resting her head sleepily against his shoulder; he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being distracted by her. She nuzzles against his neck, and his breath catches for a moment. In. Out. In.

_xv. maybe sometimes we feel afraid, but it's alright, the more you stay the same, the more they seem to change...you're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow_

It’s the middle of the night, and they’re in some tiny town the highway runs through, stuck at what must be the world’s longest red light. It was already red when Trip had pulled up, and has remained so for a period of time that seems truly ridiculous. Fitzsimmons are oblivious, asleep on the far back bench seat curled up together, but Skye has taken to listing things shorter than this red light, which have so far included suggestions like ‘the time between leap years’ and ‘the amount of time it took to build the Great Wall of China.’ It’s a pretty hilarious list, but that could be because he’s kind of tired.

Trip drains the last of his flat Mountain Dew, laughing as she launches into some story about Fitzsimmons and Halley’s Comet; he could chime in with his own suggestions, but she’s on a roll and he lets her talk, glowing slightly in the light from the street lamp. He’s leaning against the door, having shifted the van into park, watching the light out of the corner of his eye, listening half to Skye and half to the song on the radio. It’s a good song, he thinks, drowsy, and maybe he should let her drive, and maybe he should kiss her.

It’s not the first time he’s had the thought, but it’s the first time he’s taken it seriously. Trip is sleepy and over-caffeinated and just crazy enough in that moment to do it. There have been times in his life when he really wanted to kiss someone, but he has never wanted to kiss someone as much as he wants to kiss Skye in that moment.

So he does. Because he is stuck at the world’s longest red light and he has had three Mountain Dews and an awful bottle of sweet tea and not enough sleep. Because he likes the song on the radio and the summer heat rolling in through his open window and the way the van hums under his feet. Because he likes the way the streetlight catches in her hair and the way she has continued this awful joke for like five minutes.

Because he wants to, and has for a while now.

She’s watching the light as she talks, but the next time she turns to him, he leans forward and catches her lips with his. The angle is awkward; the kiss isn’t. At some point, Skye’s hand tangles in the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer; he leans away just long enough to slip out of his seatbelt, supporting himself with one hand on the center console while the other spreads in the dip of her waist. Trip thinks that it’s distinctly unfair that he probably tastes like stale Mountain Dew and cheap sweet tea, while she tastes like the open road and summer and possibility and bubblegum chapstick.

When they finally pull apart, the light is red. Trip’s not sure if it has been red the whole time or if he missed his opportunity to see the world’s shortest green light, but he doesn’t really care. He should probably keep his eyes on the light, so that he doesn’t miss his chance to go when it finally does turn. But he can always turn right on red and find some street that does not include the world’s longest red light; if worst comes to worst, he can just run the red light, treat it like a weird stop sign, since no other car has appeared since they’ve been sitting here, probably because it is two in the morning and they’re in the middle of nowhere. Simmons would probably reprimand him for his bad driving practices right now.

Trip leaves the van in park and kisses her again.

_xvi. we got no money, but we got heart, we're gonna rattle this ghost town, this house is falling apart_

“Is Skye driving?” she hears Trip ask.

“No, Jemma likes this song,” Fitz mumbles his answer back after a few moments, both of them still half-asleep. She smiles, at the idea that Trip felt comfortable enough in his knowledge of their music tastes to guess who was driving based on the song playing, that Fitz knew almost immediately that she likes this song. She’s not surprised Fitz had known, but it’s still nice.

Jemma remembers what she’d told Skye near the beginning of the trip, that she and Fitz had had each other for a long time, but hadn’t had much in the way of others; and that had been good, for years and years, because she loved Fitz, and he was her person. But there are other people now, who know their music tastes and how they take their tea and the hundreds of other things that you know about people you’re close to, and that’s good too.

“What’s that smile for?” Skye asks from the passenger seat. She’s been awake for about an hour, talking with Jemma as they let the boys sleep. It’s nice to have someone to talk to when Fitz is sleeping; it’s nice to be able to let him sleep when she needs someone to talk to.

“I’m glad we’re together. Here. Together,” she says, and she doesn’t know how to say it more elegantly than that, and she doesn’t think it matters, not with Skye.

“Yeah, it’s definitely good,” she answers, and then turns in her seat to look at Trip, “Morning.”

“Morning,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her quickly.

“Gross!” shouts Fitz, gleefully, and Jemma only rolls her eyes instead of admonishing him. She knows he’s been waiting to do it for a while, and that he probably deserves to do it at least once, what with all the times Skye has good-naturedly teased them. Besides, neither Trip nor Skye seem to mind that much, since they’re both smiling as they flip him off.

“You couldn’t resist, could you?” Trip asks, and Fitz shakes his head, still grinning. Trip turns to Jemma, “Why do I get the feeling that anytime kissing happens in any sort of public setting, it’s going to be followed almost immediately by a cry of ‘gross?’”

“Probably because you’ve met both Fitz and Skye,” she answers, and smiles when Fitz pouts at her, “Trip, kiss Fitz for me, will you? He’s pouting.”

There’s a brief scuffle in the back and a fair bit of shouting on Fitz’s part before Trip manages to get a hold of him and press a kiss against his forehead.

“What in the world made you believe that would make me less upset?” Fitz asks, and Jemma laughs.

“It was mostly for my own enjoyment really,” she answers, and he only manages to scowl for a few seconds before he’s smiling back at her.

“Breakfast?” he asks, eternally hopeful and excited at the prospect of food.

“Oh, I’m with Fitz on that,” says Trip, and Skye laughs.

“Our boys are quite the pair,” she says, and warmth settles in Jemma’s stomach at her phrasing.

“We’re quite the group,” she replies, and Skye laughs again.

“Yeah, we are. Now that’s more than enough sappiness pre-breakfast. Let’s hit up a McDonald’s and see if Fitz can eat his weight in McMuffins.”

_xvii. and you better wear your shades, the spotlights here can burn holes through the stage_

“Ready?” Trip asks her, grinning, finger on the play button.

“I was born ready, Antoine,” Skye returns, peering at him over her sunglasses, “You’re up first anyway.”

“I know. I just don’t want you caught off guard when your bit  comes up.”

“I would just like to say that I’m not ready,” Fitz inserts from the back, “I’m not ready in the slightest.”

“Don’t be a killjoy, Fitz,” Skye shoots back and he rolls his eyes.

“That would require some joy to be brought about by what’s about to happen.”

“It brings me lots of joy. Your complete lack of a sense of fun makes me sad, Fitzy,” Trip says.

“I have a great sense of fun!”

“Then hush,” Skye says, and Trip hits play.

They had discovered fairly early on in the trip, after an impromptu performance of _Airplanes_ , that Skye could sing the choruses and Trip, if he knew the words, could rap the verses. They had stuck to these roles for a while, until it was revealed that Trip could sing at most three notes and Skye couldn’t rap at all, and then they had gleefully switched, much to Fitz’s exasperation. Simmons just seemed quietly amused by the whole thing, including Fitz’s irritation.

“ _If you are what you say you are, a superstar_ ,” sings Trip, straining to match the notes and failing. Skye is giggling and Simmons is smiling and Fitz is trying to cover both of his ears with one hand, since Simmons is holding the other one; Trip flips him off over his shoulder as he continues to sing with a grin. Skye takes over on the verse, or at least she tries.

It’s pretty much entirely a disaster. Part of the problem is that she’s giggling so hard about Trip’s attempts to sing and Fitz’s attempts to block him out, but mostly it’s just that Skye absolutely can’t rap. She can’t pick up the rhythm, she gets behind and can’t catch up, she tries to add in or subtract words.

“Bloody hell, Skye, don’t you have to words in front of you right now?” Fitz asks, and Trip looks over to see that she does indeed have her phone out with the lyrics on the screen. He laughs even harder trying to get through the chorus again. As Skye begins to mangle the second verse, a thought occurs to him.

Normal teams probably aren’t like this. They probably don’t perform duets singing the wrong parts, or the right parts, for that matter. They probably don’t sneak into public swimming pools or have room service food fights in hotels or nearly get kicked out of convenience stores for singing _Don’t Stop Believin’_. They probably don’t go on non-mission related road trips.

He’s known this for a while, he supposes, a thought unnoticed at the back of his mind, but it makes him smile to acknowledge it now. It’s good to be a part of a team.

It’s great to be a part of this team.

“Trip!” Skye shouts, pulling him out of his thoughts as he realizes the chorus has come back around again. They finish the song, breathless and laughing, and Simmons applauds.

“Thank god that’s over,” Fitz says, and Skye reaches back to swat at him.

“Encore!” Simmons calls.

“Jemma,” Fitz groans, and she just smiles at him sweetly until he returns it.

“What do you think, Trip?” Skye asks, and he takes one hand off the wheel to  tangle his fingers with hers, because he’s allowed to do that now and it’s pretty great. Lots of things are pretty great right now.

“Absolutely.”

_xviii. we could be like onions and peppers, in a sleeping bag fajita, we could be anything you want, the way you're busting out of that wife-beater_

“Oh my god,” Skye says, and Fitz glances over at her, worried something is wrong.

“What?” he asks, and she points at the radio.

“This song is about sex!”

“Er, yeah.”

“It’s not even like a euphemism or a bunch of metaphors. It’s just straight out about hooking up.”

“It actually does have a metaphor,” inserts Jemma from the back, “About the sleeping bag fajita.”

“Yeah, okay, there is that. But it’s mostly just about straight out sex.”

“Yes. I don’t understand why this is a big deal,” Fitz says, looking over at Skye and then back at the other two to see if they understand what is happening. They clearly don’t.

“I just can’t believe _you_ have this song on your iPod.”

“I like this song. Besides, I’m not unfamiliar with the concept,” Fitz defends himself, trying not to blush too much.

“Oh, really?” Skye says, raising her eyebrows at him before turning to look at Jemma in the back seat, who doesn’t do a good job at all of not blushing, “Sex-opold Fitz. That’s what I’m calling you now.”

“No,” says Jemma, at the same time Fitz says, “Absolutely not.”

Trip is laughing in the seat behind Jemma, “Please never call him anything but that ever again.”

“Absolutely not,” Fitz says to Skye again before looking over his shoulder at the other man, “Please don’t encourage her.”

“Fitz,” Skye whines, “What good is friendship if I can’t give you stupid, embarrassing nicknames?

“If that’s really all you value about our friendship, I’m ending it right now.”

“Of course that’s not all I value. You can fix my phone for free when it breaks and you explain British slang to me. Also, if I ever need someone to play pool with, I know who to call. Plus, for reasons I don’t completely understand, I like you.” Fitz tries not to smile at that, because he knows she’ll tease him about it, but he can feel the corners of his mouth turning upward.

“Awww, look. The little nerd is smiling because I said I liked him. One of you get a picture of his dumb, adorable face right now.” Trip searches for his phone while Fitz attempts to scowl. It’s not working.

“Hey, skip back and play the song again,” Skye says, reaching for his iPod.

“Why?”

“Because I was distracted by my disbelief and this seems like the kind of song I might enjoy.”

“It’s because you want to make fun of me more, isn’t it?”

“Of course not, Sex-opold.”

Fitz groans, and she leans over the center console to press a kiss against his cheek. He lets her play the song three more times.

_xix. so cover my skin with your sunkissed light, there's a bonfire burning tonight, we could be all right_

She never passes up an opportunity to look at Fitz’s sketchbooks. He’s fairly private about them, even with her, and so when she holds it up and he nods, biting his bottom lip like he’s nervous, she flips through it enthusiastically.

There are lots of drawings, most of them small, seven or eight to a page. Plenty of them are of her, but there’s lots of Trip and Skye as well, even some of May and Coulson and his mum, mixed with things they’ve seen on the trip and things from his past and new designs; his work and personal notebooks have never really been exclusive. Jemma knows he’s done a lot of this work on the road, and marvels at how straight he manages to keep the lines, how light his hand is.

Her breath catches slightly when she flips to the last page; until now every drawing has been small, but this one reaches to the corners of the paper. She remembers the scene he’s depicted vaguely, knowing he must have sat down and sketched it right then, while the rest of them stood by the van after stopping for dinner. Skye’s perched on the hood, with Trip in profile next to her, just in front of the van, bent double laughing at something Skye had said. She herself is a little further down the van, leaning against it, watching the other two with a smile. The sun sets behind them in shades of gray that he’s managed to make silver.

“What do you think?” His voice pulls her from her examination of the drawing. Jemma smiles at him, standing nervously at the driver’s side window, peering through the gap between the seat and the window at her in the back seat.

“They’re amazing, Fitz. As they usually are.” He smiles, nerves visibly melting away, and he circles the van to slide onto the bench seat next to her. “I especially like this one. There’s just one thing missing.”

His brow wrinkles as he tries to spot what she’s talking about.

“What?”

“You’re not in it.”

“Well, no, Jem. I was drawing the picture.”

“But you should be in it. You’re not just an observer on this trip, you know.”

Fitz sighs, rolls his eyes, but takes the sketchbook from her, pulling the pencil from the binding and setting to work. Jemma keeps trying to glance over as he draws, but he angles it away from; she sticks her tongue out but leaves him to his work. It’s ten minutes or so before he turns it back towards her with a small smile.

“Happy?” he asks, and she nods. He’s drawn himself leaning against the van next to her, hands shoved in his pockets, laughing, looking not at Trip and Skye but at her. The look he’s managed to shade into his own eyes kind of takes her breath away; she looks up to see the real thing smirking at her, and he really managed to capture that look pretty well, because she’s experiencing it first hand right now.

“Exactly right.”

“Well, I’m next to you. Right where I belong,” he says, leaning forward to catch her lips just briefly. She’d been driving, had shifted back while the others went into the gas station so that Trip could drive, but hadn’t shut her music off yet; it plays as they sit, foreheads resting together, notebook between them.

“Won’t you cover my skin in your sunkissed light?” Fitz whispers, and Jemma smiles when she hears the song playing.

“Oh, you’re smooth, Leopold Fitz,” she says, and he shrugs.

“That’s what they all say.”

“All who?” she asks, and kisses him before he can answer, tugging on the collar of his shirt, setting her teeth into his bottom lip lightly. They’re both fairly breathless when they pull apart, and Fitz looks dazed; she thinks it’s a rather good look for him, and presses one more firm kiss against his lips.

“You’re my best friend,” Jemma says, pulling away only enough to see his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling just a little, sounding breathless and a little shocked. He has to shake his head a few times and clear his throat before his voice returns to normal, “I mean, you’re my best friend, too.”

She’s just about to kiss him again, because she really is quite fond of that dazed quality in his voice and his eyes, when she hears Skye call through the open windows of the van.

“Fitzsimmons! No making out in the van! That is a rule!” Skye is very big on the rules of the road trip.

Fitz groans and Jemma laughs, settling for threading her fingers through Fitz’s and resting her head against his shoulder. And if she leans up to press her lips against the spot just below his ear just to feel him shiver, well, maybe there are some rules she doesn’t mind breaking in the name of Leopold Fitz. It’s getting to be a rather long list.

Trip steers them out of the parking lot, discussing something with Skye, not bothering to switch her music off, and Jemma smiles; at the music and the sound of their voices and the warmth of Fitz next to her.

They’re going to be alright.

_xx. so won’t you stay shotgun ‘til the day i die_

She looks west toward the setting sun. Mostly she just wants to watch the sunset, but she can’t help thinking about Coulson and May and S.H.I.E.L.D. and responsibility; maybe it’s time to go back, but she doesn’t really know. Skye turns to the others, wondering if they’re thinking the same sort of things. Trip is next to her, one arm around her shoulders, leaning against the side of the van, and Fitzsimmons are still at the table, Fitz finishing off everyone’s leftovers. It’s bright and warm and everything summer should be.

Coulson hasn’t said anything about coming back. She’s been sending him updates the whole trip, photos and emails and postcards, and he responds mostly in emoticons and blurry selfies. Skye is equally amused and embarrassed by this.

She likes the way Trip looks in a t-shirt with his arm around her. She likes the way the sunset casts Fitzsimmons in golden light as they throw away the dinner trash. She likes being here with them. She needs to ask the question anyway; she’s pretty sure she would like being there with them too.

“So, gang, what do you say? Ready to head home?” and it doesn’t feel strange at all to say that, “Should I call Coulson and tell him to scrounge up a mission for us?”

“I suppose we have been gone for a while,” Fitz says, and Jemma nods.

“Coulson probably needs us,” she adds.

“We should probably head back as soon as possible,” Trip says. Skye looks up at him to make sure the smile she hears in his voice is actually there.

“Or…” says Jemma, and it really is a thing of beauty to watch her attempt to be casual. Fitz matches her smile, like he matches her in everything else.

“Yeah, or…” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Or we could take our time making our way back. Just show up one day and ask if Coulson has anything he needs us for,” adds Trip, and his grin has morphed into a stupidly attractive smirk.

And maybe she’s planning on kissing that smirk off his face. And maybe when they get into the van Fitzsimmons will twine themselves together because it helps to keep their nightmares at bay and they’ll continue finishing each other’s sentences and it will be grossly adorable. And maybe she’s an orphan who grew up alone and found a family and then took a good portion of that family on a road trip to find themselves. Maybe they are every terrible cliche on the books.

They’re a team and they’re together. Skye doesn’t think it really matters what else they are.

“Yeah. We could do that,” she says, spinning out from under Trip’s arm with a laugh. They all scramble for the van, laughing, doors slamming as she starts it.

Skye settles into the driver’s seat with Trip next to her, still smirking, and she remembers that she wanted to do something about that. Leaning across the center console, she presses her lips against his, blindly reaching to turn her music on. It’s loud and she doesn’t turn it down and no one asks her to, not even Fitz. That’s probably character growth or something.

The road is long in front of her and the air is warm and they are together. This is the moment. She’s not sure what it’s the moment of, but it’s something good, and she breathes in it for long seconds before she presses down on the gas.

They are on their way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First part of the title comes from Time by the Mowgli’s and the second part from Next in Line by Walk the Moon. A mix with all the songs used in the story will hopefully be up in the next few days, and I'll try to add the link here.
> 
> I don’t know why I attempted a fic containing so many of my weaknesses in abundance, namely dialogue, Jemma Simmons, Skye when not talking to Fitz, Jemma Simmons, not overusing semi-colons and run-on sentences and writing in the English language.
> 
> There are too many of my headcanons in this behemoth to list them all. If you have questions about songs I chose or other headcanons in the story, please feel free to ask me about them.


End file.
